


You Do Enough Talk

by downjune



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Barebacking, M/M, Unrequited Love, WBS kids cameo, team poly, trade angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-10-09 18:57:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10418904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downjune/pseuds/downjune
Summary: Geno looks at Sid with the same bewildered fondness of so many years, like he still can’t figure out how he ended up here. How he got this lucky. Marc-Andre could explain it if anyone asked. He could recount the steps that led them all right here.But that’s not his job tonight.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Having a bit of the old writer's block/deadline angst with an original thing I'm working on, so I wrote this today instead of working on that! 2K of trade angst and MAF feelings that nobody asked for. 
> 
> Inspired entirely by [this gifset.](http://intermissionpenguins.tumblr.com/post/158704783832/geno-couldnt-get-on-it-somehow-so-ill-wait-for) Which is framed so perfectly to show Flower and Tanger gazing at Sid, and Sid looking at Geno. And suddenly there was fic. Takes place immediately after the core presented Sid with his 1000 points golden stick, in yet another team poly verse not connected to any of my other ones.

You Do Enough Talk 

Smiling for the cameras and for the guys in the room, Marc-Andre wears his happiness on the outside. It’s always real. Next to him, Kris looks at Sid with his heart a few layers beneath his sleeve, though it’s no less obvious to anyone who knows how to look. 

No one is. Sid takes the gold stick and makes his bad jokes, and Geno looks at him with the same bewildered fondness of so many years, like he still can’t figure out how he ended up here. How he got this lucky. Marc-Andre could explain it if anyone asked. He could recount the steps that led them all right here. 

But that’s not his job tonight. He holds Sid’s stick. Tanger holds his sweater, and Kuni MCs the whole ceremony because it was his goal, and he’s better at this stuff, anyway. It’s for the guys, and with the cameras, it’s for the fans too. This part isn’t just for Sid. He looks at Geno, young and out of breath, even though they’re both circling thirty, and it’s obvious that what’s next, behind a locked door, will be for only Sid. 

A nudge at his shoulder startles him, and he glances over to see Tanger smirking at him. “Ça va?” he asks quietly. 

Which means it’s not just happiness for Sid on his face. There must be some other stuff.

“Bien,” he answers, though it doesn’t come out right. Kris bumps into him again and stays there, which helps and makes everything worse. These days, Marc-Andre rides at about a six as his baseline, so it doesn’t take much to push him past an eight—a good or a bad game, the right or wrong look from Matty, Sid’s happiness or his anger. Almost anything will wedge this lump in his throat and push tears into his eyes. 

He feels like the unbalanced teenager he never was. Or maybe this is just the midlife crisis of the professional athlete. He tries not to but thinks, _Is this the last time I’ll do one of these dumb things with these guys? Will it be the next one? Which one is the last one?_

When they turn their props over to Dana after the ceremony, Kris sticks close to him, just off his left shoulder, and Marc-Andre knows if he looked what he’d find. Exactly how Tanger would lift his chin and ask with his eyes who he needs to fuck up to fix this. It wouldn’t need to be violence. A withering glare and some dismissive French from Kris Letang can be as devastating as his yelling. 

But of course, there’s no one to yell at. Kris can’t do anything to fix this. This, specifically. 

Still, when Kris jerks his chin toward the stairs down to the basement rooms, Marc-Andre nods. Sid and Geno might end up down here at some point, or they might make it somewhere nicer since this a special occasion, but Marc-Andre and Tanger will already be busy. Which is for the best. 

Laughter echoes off the cinderblock halls, and it sounds like Rusty, who’s never been shy about asking teammates here. A door shuts down the hall, muffling the laughter along with whoever answers him. Marc-Andre would put money on Knuckles. For all he jumps around, Rusty slows down and waits for Tom. 

Tanger guides him into one of the single rooms and shuts the door behind them. “Qu’est-ce que tu veux?” he asks. “Que puis-je faire?” _What do you want? What can I do?_

“Nothing, just…” Marc-Andre reaches to his left without looking, where he knows Tanger is just past his periphery, and catches hold of his arm. He turns and Kris blinks at him, brows creased. He nods and drops his gaze to where Marc-Andre has him, pushes him toward the bed, and sits him down. 

“Do you want me to be him?” he asks quietly.

Marc-Andre shakes his head, face heating. “No, I don’t want that.”

“If you asked him, he’d—”

“Please shut the fuck up.”

Tanger scowls and steps closer between Marc-Andre’s knees, prying them open. He bends down and hooks Marc-Andre under his thighs, lifts him up like he weighs nothing, and muscles him back on the bed. Flinging his arms wide to catch himself, Marc-Andre lands with a huff and scoots back to make room. No matter how many times he sees or touches Tanger, when he strips out of his shirt, he is something to behold. His chest covered in dark hair with a thick line of it to the waist of his spandex, broad as a truck, and about as gentle, he holds himself over Marc-Andre, full of righteous, helpless wrath. Sometimes it’s good when hovering at about an eight to spend time with someone who lives there.

“That fucked me up, too,” Kris says quickly and tips his head back toward the hall. “Not like it did for you, I guess, but. I feel a little fucked up right now.”

Like too much love is just as dangerous as not enough. Like it cuts both ways. 

“When was your last screen?” Marc-Andre asks.

Tanger’s eyes sharpen and his nostrils flare on his inhale. “Last month while I was out. I’m clean.”

Nodding, Marc-Andre tips his chin up in invitation. “Me too.”

Wetting his lips, Kris lowers himself, and Marc-Andre exhales with the press of his greater weight. “You want to fuck?” he says in Marc-Andre’s ear, like he needs to make it sexy.

Smiling before he can help it, Marc-Andre tells him, “That’s the idea, hot stuff.”

Kris growls, ridiculous and hot and inescapably himself, and grinds between Marc-Andre’s legs, wedging them apart with his crazy thighs. He gets his weight back on his knees and gestures at the hem of Marc-Andre’s shirt. “Strip,” he says.

“You do it,” Marc-Andre answers.

Kris’s mouth twists, but he does it.

*

The great thing about Tanger fucking him—Kris knows exactly flexible he is, and he’s not afraid to bend him as far as he’ll go, especially when he’s still warmed up from practice or a game. 

With his knees held wide open and pressed on either side of his shoulders, Marc-Andre can’t draw breath to speak. He can hardly breathe at all. Trying to inflate his diaphragm, he comes of up against his own thighs and Tanger’s weight. Filling his lungs is impossible with Tanger kissing the breath out of him. So Marc-Andre doesn’t try. He lets his involuntary muscles do what they do and drifts. Kris clutches at him, pins him to the bed at pinched points of contact, and those points stay at the edge of his awareness while a burning pleasure catches and grows in his gut. He focuses enough to see Kris working hard, his hair swaying, his skin shiny, his eyes open but locked somewhere below Marc-Andre’s, and he wonders who Kris is thinking of. Or if it’s worse if he’s thinking only of Marc-Andre. 

He’s getting light-headed, his skin humming, and he wonders distantly if he can get off without a hand, with just Tanger bare in him and that look in his eyes. 

As if he heard, Kris glances up and latches onto Marc-Andre's gaze like he can’t help it. He changes the pace a little, holds for longer when he bottoms out, as if he has to remind himself every time to move again. 

_What if this is it? What happens to everything we’ve done and thought? Where does it go when this is over? How am I supposed to do this with anyone else?_

Marc-Andre, of course, has no way of knowing if Kris is thinking this with him, but he imagines Kris drawing it out on purpose, holding Marc-Andre on that edge, not letting him breathe or move or think about anything else except when he can come. 

Kris pulls out, the drag excruciating, but Marc-Andre inhales while he can. “Fucker,” he manages before Kris drives back in and pins him there, grinding and working his hips so he nails Marc-Andre right where he needs. 

He shudders and clamps down, orgasm radiating out and up his spine in a shock wave that leaves his hands and calves twitching with tremors. 

Kris is unbearably smug about it until he tips over the edge himself, caught seemingly unaware and clutching bruises into the backs of Marc-Andre’s knees.

When he collapses on top of him, he mutters his favorite word into Marc-Andre’s ear. “Fuck.”

*

There’s a bit more cleanup after fucking bare, but Kris is a gentleman about it, cleaning Marc-Andre with a wet cloth and only bending his legs at funny angles to see how far he can stretch them two times. When that’s done and his curiosity satisfied, Kris hands him his sweats. 

“Do you want to go?” he asks.

Marc-Andre shakes his head. “Not yet.” And with a nod, Kris drops back down next to him. They lie there in silence, not quite touching, and listen to the muted sounds of conversation somewhere else down the hall. The walls are thick enough he can’t tell who it is or what’s being said, but the thought reminds him of Rusty and Knuckles and how important it is to have someone like that to come up with. How lucky he was to get Sid in ’05 and Tanger in ’08.

“I’m not in love with him,” he blurts out. “I’m not stupid.” It feels safe to say that here, locked in a room, in their first language. 

He looks over to see Kris pressing his mouth into a smirk. “Me either,” he says, and Marc-Andre can’t tell which part he’s agreeing with, which is as close as Kris will ever come to admitting it’s both.

“I know what he would do for me. For either of us. So I’m never going to tell him.”

“That you’re not in love with him.”

“Right.” He takes a deep breath. “There’s no point. I’ll be gone soon anyway.”

Kris scoffs out an ugly sound. “Then what do you have to lose?”

Marc-Andre glares back at him. Sometime before he leaves, he will have Sid to himself here. He could have Sid as much as he wants from now until then, if he asked. Which is exactly why he won’t. 

“Enough.”

Kris makes another unhappy sound and scowls at the ceiling. 

“Make sure you look after him,” Marc-Andre says. “Make sure he doesn’t do it all himself, even if he says he’s—”

“Come the fuck on, it’s not like you’re dying,” Kris interrupts. “Quit feeling sorry for yourself.” He shoots Marc-Andre a weird, angry look.

“Don’t tell me how to feel,” Marc-Andre snaps back.

“Don’t expect me not to feel like shit about this, too.”

“I—don’t.”

“Good. Worry about _me_ taking on too much. Worry about me missing you.”

Marc-Andre blinks. “I do. I will.”

“Good.” Kris nods sharply, apparently satisfied that Marc-Andre’s unhappiness will extend to him when the time comes. “Would it be so bad if you had me to come back to?” he asks. “If it wasn’t who you wanted—but it was me. Would it be so bad?”

Kris keeps his gaze on the ceiling, stubborn and sullen, a few pinched lines around his eyes that, just a year or two ago, weren’t there.

Marc-Andre slides his hand from across his stomach down to his side where he finds Kris’s. He brushes his knuckles against Kris’s bare hip and slots their fingers together. He squeezes until Kris squeezes back, until he can feel his pulse in how tightly they’re holding on, and when he looks, the tips of their fingers are white. Kris briefly meets his eyes, long enough for Marc-Andre to shake his head. "It wouldn't."

Another knot of emotion clogs his throat, and he doesn’t try to swallow or speak around it. Tears sting his eyes again, and when he blinks, they leak down the sides of his face. The weight of how much he feels threatens to smother him with more than he can describe in either language he knows.

So he doesn’t try. His involuntary muscles do what they do—pump his blood, pull oxygen into his lungs, blow it back out—and Kris stays with him.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr!](http://itstartledme.tumblr.com/)


End file.
